He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [158]
Ramses glanced at his father; his lips parted in a smile so wide I would have called it a grin if I had believed my son’s countenance capable of that expression. Then he slipped away and started up the stairs.
I started after him. Emerson caught me by the arm and whispered into my ear, “Don’t ask him about his coat.”
Emerson’s whispers are audible ten feet away. Everyone in the courtyard heard him, including Nefret. “Why not?” she asked.
“He left it, you see,” Emerson gabbled. “Forgot it. New coat. Fuss at the boy . . .”
I left him telling lies and went after Ramses.
His door was open. I was somewhat startled to hear him say, “Most kind. However, I am about to eat breakfast. Perhaps we might put it aside for later.”
He was standing by the bed holding a dead mouse by the tail.
“So that is what she did with it,” I remarked. “I was the first recipient, and I fear I did not accept the gift as graciously as you. I wish you wouldn’t talk to the cat as you do to a human being, it is very disconcerting. Take off that coat and let me have a look at you.”
Ramses put the mouse on his bureau. Seshat sat down and began washing her face.
“Leave it, Mother.” He removed the coat and tossed it onto the bed. Except for the half-healed wounds, his tanned chest and back were unmarked. “I’m as hungry as a pariah dog. Father needs your care more than I. I’m surprised you haven’t been at him already.”
“He was too hungry.” I watched him pull a shirt from the cupboard and slip into it. “He said he’d fallen off his horse when the poor creature stepped into a hole and broke its leg. What happened?”
“He fell, yes. So did the gelding, when it was struck by a bullet.” He finished buttoning his shirt. “Can you wait for the rest of it? No, I suppose not. We were ambushed. The fellow had us pinned down, and with Father injured it seemed advisable to stay where we were until dark. The man was a German spy. He came out of hiding, and we had a little skirmish. He killed himself rather than be taken prisoner. We started back. When we got onto the caravan road I fired off a few shots, which eventually attracted the attention of the Camel Corps. They escorted us to the barracks at Abbasia.”
The narrative had been as crisp and unemotional as a report. I knew he had not told me everything, and I also knew it was all I was going to get out of him.
Ramses tucked his shirt in. “May we go down now?”
Everyone was having a second breakfast, to Fatima’s delight; she liked nothing better than feeding as many people as she could get hold of. As soon as she saw Ramses she concentrated her efforts on him, and for some time he was unable to converse at all as she stuffed him with eggs and porridge and bread and marmalade.
Emerson was telling Selim and Daoud—who had not gone home—about the ruins in the desert. “A temple,” he declared dogmatically. “Nineteenth Dynasty. I saw a cartouche of Ramses the Second. We’ll spend a few days out there, Selim, after the end of our regular season.”
Oh, yes, of course, I thought. A few peaceful days in the desert with German spies skulking about and the Turks attacking the Canal and the Camel Corps shooting at anything that moved. What had they done with the body of the dead spy? That would be a pretty thing to come upon in the course of excavation.
Finally I put an end to the festivities by insisting that Emerson bathe and rest. Selim said they would return to Atiyah and await Emerson’s orders. “Tomorrow—” he began.
“Tomorrow?” Emerson exclaimed. “I will join you at Giza in two hours or less, Selim. Good Gad, we’ve missed half a morning’s work as it is.”
I took Emerson away. We had a great deal to talk about.
“Two more shirts ruined,” I remarked, cutting away the remains of both garments. “I want Nefret to have a look at your shoulder, Emerson. I am sure Ramses did the best he could, but—”
“No one could have done better. Did he tell you what happened?”
“A synopsis only. He was distressed about something, I could tell.”
Emerson gave me a somewhat longer synopsis. “The fellow was